


Four Times Raphael Santiago Was Kissed, and the One Time He Kissed First

by albabutter



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Raphael, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Kitsch, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Gen, Hanukkah, Jewish Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 01:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albabutter/pseuds/albabutter
Summary: His mother should have had a house full of girls. Instead she ended up with him and his brothers and a rag tag crew of every teenaged hooligan in a five mile radius running through her home. She was quick to grab an ear but quicker to give a hug, and Raphael put up with it as well as could be expected. She gave hugs to the neighborhood boys and kisses to her sons, and the only silver lining was that she didn’t wear lipstick.





	Four Times Raphael Santiago Was Kissed, and the One Time He Kissed First

His mother should have had a house full of girls. Instead she ended up with him and his brothers and a rag tag crew of every teenaged hooligan in a five mile radius running through her home. She was quick to grab an ear but quicker to give a hug, and Raphael put up with it as well as could be expected. She gave hugs to the neighborhood boys and kisses to her sons, and the only silver lining was that she didn’t wear lipstick.   
  
He grew taller and learned to lean down so she could cup his face in her hands. She would kiss him--forehead then nose, then each cheek. She called it the _Sign of the Motherhood_ , and rarely let him leave the house without it. She kissed him the day he was turned, and he remembers being impatient, brushing her off, ready to leave and join the other boys. It’s one of a thousand things he regrets from that day, and the smallest of them all. But it stings the most.  
  
The next time he sees her, as a vampire pretending to be a warlock, pretending to be perfectly fine, she kisses him like she always does, and it burns like holy water.

 

* * *

Camille tries, once. She’s still trying to get a read on him, figure him out, find a weakness. He’s not surprised. It’s what she does, and it would only be a matter of time. It’s in the early days of their relationship, and she’s still technically tying Magnus up in knots. But seduction is the easiest play in her book and natural as breathing.

They’re in the middle of thwarting a rather pathetic coup. It’s half strategizing, half bitchy gossip, and he makes a scathing remark about somebody that delights Camille to no end. 

“Darling,” she purrs, and there’s an immediate shift that sets his teeth on edge. She gets up from where she was lounging on a baroque chaise-  _ over the top, she’s just so over the top- _ and saunters over to him. It’s smooth and sensual, so graceful you almost forget that it’s predatory, but it’s wasted on him. They all move like that. Poise comes with the fangs apparently. He’s seen it work on lesser men, vampires and mundanes alike. But all he feels is dread. Her perfume is cloying, and her nails dig into his arm as she leans in. She’s aggressive-too much, too fast. Between her scent and the bitter taste of old blood in her mouth, it takes everything in him to hold still. He keeps his eyes open, so he sees the moment his passive reaction registers. Camille’s eyes narrow as she pulls back, and he keeps his face blank. 

“Are you done?”

She jerks back like he slapped her, and he braces himself for whatever violent temper tantrum is about to erupt. But instead she just wipes her mouth and pretends to smooth out her hair. 

“Well, at least we won’t have to worry about mixing business and pleasure.”

He adjusts his jacket and moves over to the always present decanter. 

“Politics are difficult enough.”

He gets a hollow laugh for that, and he raises his glass to her as she sprawls back out on the chaise. She’s pouting now, a small, ugly quirk to her mouth that tells him every instinct he had was right. He resists the urge to spit. 

A mundane shows up at his door later, tranced and drugged to the gills. He’s naked, save for blood red lips, the same shade Camille had been wearing. A note is scrawled across his bare chest in the same color-

_ “More to your taste?” _

He slams the door in his face and tries to ignore the sound of her laughter from floors away.

 

* * *

 Magnus post-Camille is colorful, social, and insanely distrustful. It takes Raphael an embarrassingly long time to find the balls to go to Magnus, and when he does, he’s fully expecting to get thrown out on his ass. It would have been easier to take than the disappointed look on Magnus’s face when he lets him in.

 They sit in silence for a long time. Magnus watches him, and Raphael looks at his feet. He hasn’t felt this small in decades, and in a way it’s nice to know he still can. 

“I should have told you about Camille.”

Magnus nods. “Yes, you should have.”

“I was wrong.”

“Very.”

“And I’m sorry.”

“Look me in the eye when you say it.” 

Raphael jerks his head up and meets Magnus’s stare head on. 

“I’m sorry. For not telling you, for hurting you. For not thinking about whether it would hurt you, and not caring. It was selfish. I’m selfish-”

Magnus holds up his hand, and Raphael’s mouth closes with a click. 

“You could have stopped at ‘I’m sorry’”. 

Magnus stands up and moves in front of him. 

“I should have known. You can take the boy out of the cathedral, but you can’t take the Catholic guilt out of the boy.”

He’s joking, but they both know he’s uncomfortably close to the truth. Even now, Raphael feels like he needs more. What’s confession without penance? Magnus seems to read his mind. 

“I’m not going to tell you to say five ‘Hail Mary’s’. Burn your tongue out of your head if you think it will make you feel better, but don’t think for a second that it’s what I want or that you’re doing it for me.” 

Raphael bows his head.  _ Dios, was he that transparent? _

Magnus steps forward and cups his face in his hands. 

“We’re immortal, Raphael. Time passes slower when you’re angry, and my schedule is already booked. I don’t have time to be angry with you. I have ten million other grudges that I have to attend to.”

He leans down and kisses the top of Raphael’s head. 

“I forgive you.” 

It’s not divine benediction, but he still feels lighter than he has in years. 

 

* * *

 

Simon surprises him, for the first time. He blames it on the euphoric feeling that comes with a hard-earned feed. One minute, Simon’s making some kind of stupid pop culture reference, and Raphael can feel his face relax ( _ it’s not a smile, it’s just less of a frown) _ , and the next thing he knows, Simon’s darting in and covering his mouth with his own. It’s simple, lips together, like this was Simon’s first kiss or, more likely, like didn’t expect to get this close. He seems to realize that Raphael isn’t pushing him away, so Simon shifts. Their noses bump, but the angle is better, and it gives Simon the confidence he needs to step closer. Raphael has a moment of sheer panic- _ where do his hands go? Waist? Shoulders? _ \- before he remembers that this shouldn’t be happening in the first place. But he doesn’t pull away. Not until Simon swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, and he jumps back like a live wire. Simon holds his hands up, eyes wide, and panting.

He’s breathing harder than he should be considering that he’s dead. Harder than he should be from a kiss. 

“I’m sorry,” Simon stutters, and he’s always fucking stuttering. There’s something about him that just invites ridicule. He can imagine him back in his old neighborhood. That one kid that doesn’t quite fit in, but insists on tagging along. He’d be a target with his puppy eyes and complete inability to be aggressive. He can picture it perfectly- having to drag some of the older boys off of him, split lip and black eye and still determined to run with them. God. He’d probably have to make some stupid hands off rule, just to keep him alive. Nobody but his to mess with. Simon’s looking at him, eyes dark and waiting. There’s a smudge of blood on the corner of his mouth, and Raphael feels a flare of possessiveness in his chest. It’s enough to snap him out of it, enough to make him realize that he’s just been staring like a complete idiot for entirely too long. 

“Dont. Don’t do that again.”

It comes out firm, but he realizes too late that he’s still staring at Simon’s mouth. He jerks his eyes up to see Simon’s eyebrows halfway to his hairline. 

“Wasn’t gonna. Scout’s honor.” He holds three fingers up and gives a small smile, the corner creased in blood, and Raphael’s fingers absolutely do not twitch with a need to touch. 

He gives him a curt nod instead, and keeps his hands to himself. 

 

* * *

 

  
One of the side effects of having a new fledging in the clan is the resurgence in nostalgia they always seem to inflict. Years of clan living replaces human traditions with vampiric ones, and as downworlders, they were doubly insulated from the trivialities of the mundane existence. Until a new fledging is brought in. Holidays tend to be the worst and hardest. Immortality makes calendars irrelevant, so Raphael isn’t even aware it’s that time of the year until he sees Simon wearing a hideous, snowflake patterned ski sweater and holding a box of birthday candles.

“Is it finally your birthday, baby?”

Simon takes the ribbing in stride and shakes his head. 

“Nope. In the words of Adam Sandler, put on your yarmulke, it’s time for Hanukkah!”

It takes Raphael a second to get it--the pop culture references still throw him; he never knows what’s being referenced, but he’s started to recognize the smile whenever Simon makes one. 

“You’re Jewish?”

“Yeah, dude! Born and raised. I figured I couldn’t bring a Menorah in here. Don’t know if I can even touch one anymore, but I’ll make do.” Simon shakes the box of tiny candles and smiles, bright and easy--the kind of smile he usually saves for Clary. 

Raphael feels an unexpected urge to smile back. Instead he just nods, and says “Don’t burn the hotel down.”

Simon nods and heads to his room. The next night Raphael leaves the hotel and does a double take when he sees a tiny little flame in Simon’s window. Neither of them mentions it again, but Raphael keeps an eye out each night to watch as a candle is added. They’re tiny, and he probably wouldn’t notice if he didn’t have enhanced eyesight, but it’s comforting knowing they’re there. That Simon is comfortable enough to do it at their home. 

The eight days pass, and Raphael thinks that’s the end, but he comes back one night to hear Christmas music blasting from the hotel, and he prays to whoever’s listening that it won’t be as bad as he’s imagining. 

It’s worse. Simon has somehow dragged not one, but  _ three _ pine trees into the lobby, and the floor is littered with pine needles and tinsel and half-opened boxes of ornaments. Simon comes into view, desperately trying to untangle a ball of tree lights. He’s wearing another hideous sweater, this time with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer gracing the front, an actual red pom pom glued on. Raphael must just look surprised instead of murderous, because when Simon spots him, all he does is smile and hold up the lights. 

“Are you more of a traditional white lights guy or kitschy color lights guy?”

Raphael doesn’t even know how to answer that, so he just keeps walking. He almost trips when he sees Lily curled up on a couch, making red and green paper chains and humming along to the Dean Martin Christmas record that Raphael is ten seconds away from breaking. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Lily looks unimpressed and just holds up the chain. 

“That fledgling of yours is quite persuasive when he wants to be. Didn’t realize he was apparently the ghost of Christmas past.”

Raphael threw his hands up. “He’s Jewish! And you are too old for this, this-” he gestured around, unsure of what to call it. 

Lily rolled her eyes. “Fun? It’s harmless. Let him decorate a few trees. Would you rather he be busy with this or busy with a Shadowhunter?”

There’s an innuendo in there, and Raphael ignores it to focus on the bigger issue. 

“The rest of the clan is going to throw him and his trees out on the street. They hate this crap. Mark my words.”

 He was completely and utterly wrong. The closer they got to Christmas, the more infectious Simon’s cheer became. Mistletoe appeared in the foyer. Honest to god stockings started appearing hooked to the fireplaces, and presents started popping up under the trees. They were all labeled with clan member names. He held one up in disbelief and went to find Simon. 

“What is this?”

Simon looked up from his dvd collection, a smile already blooming. 

“Secret Santa! Everyone pulled a name out of a hat to buy a present for them.”

“I didn’t pull a name out a hat,” and  _ Dios _ why was that what came out of his mouth instead of the litany of insults he had prepared for Simon whenever he did something insanely stupid and annoying like this. 

Simon brightened up. “Oh, I pulled it for you! You were out of town that weekend. You got Lily by the way. Should be fairly easy, you guys have known each other for years right?”

Raphael turned to leave. 

“Don’t forget to put that back under the tree!”

Christmas Eve was a special kind of hell. The hotel had never looked brighter or kitschier, and its inhabitants were going nuts. There was an Elf on a Shelf (and just the fact that Raphael had had to learn what the hell it was, was torture in and of itself) on every blood safe in the building. Some kind of inside joke that spread like the plague. The entire building smelled like a forest, and there were a gaggle of his kin trying to make candy cane fangs. 

He bought Lily a first edition copy of The Great Gatsby and wrapped it in a plain brown box with string. He stuck it under the first tree he saw and booked it to his room, all the while being serenaded with the worst acappella version of ‘Baby it’s cold outside’ that he had ever heard. His room was blissfully quiet and depressingly dark and understated compared to the colorful explosion downstairs. He could still hear his clan, singing and laughing in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. He needed to go down and join them, be a part of the gathering, show that when they’re happy, he’s happy. But it was hard to make his feet move, hard to leave the quiet until a knock on his door makes the choice for him. He opens it and is completely unsurprised to see Simon on the other side. 

“Get dressed.”

Raphael raises his eyebrows at him and notes that Simon is actually...presentable. Mundane levels of presentable at least. 

“Why?” he asks slowly, suspicion apparent. Simon rolls his eyes. 

“I drew you in the Secret Santa. It’s time to give you your present.”

Raphael glares at him, but Simon just waits him out. He didn’t used to be able to do that. When did the tables turn?

“Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs.” 

And he does. He picks a black suit and ignores Simon when he offers him a cheerful red and white scarf. Simon shrugs and leads him out of the hotel. They walk in silence, and that more than anything forces Raphael to talk. 

“You haven’t said anything since we left the hotel. Is your silence my gift? Because thank you.”

Simon knocks him with his shoulder. 

“I just don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Raphael stops walking and levels him with a serious look. “I’m not a fan of surprises.”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

Simon sighs. “Do you trust me with anything boring and non-shadow world related?”

“Maybe.”

“Then trust me with this.”

Simon holds his hand out, and Raphael ignores it, but he does start walking again. They continue for a while until Simon leads him to an alley. There’s a wooden bench set up against a wall, and Simon sits down. He pats the space next to him, and Raphael sits down with a sigh. Simon pulls out his phone and sends a text. Within seconds, a bright purple portal appears on the opposite wall. Raphael doesn’t jump, but he does turn sharply to Simon who just holds a finger up to his lips. Raphael still opens his mouth, but the sound of talking stops him. Specifically, the sound of Spanish stops him. He glances inside the portal and sees that it’s an angled view into a cathedral. It’s packed, and everyone is singing and holding a candle. Raphael lets out an unnecessary breath. 

“You brought me to Midnight Mass.”

“I brought you to Midnight Mass.”

Raphael is speechless, and Simon for once keeps his mouth shut. They listen and follow along, or rather Simon listens, and Raphael follows along, because Simon doesn’t understand a word of Latin or Spanish. But he gets the gist, and he hums along with the songs he recognizes and watches as people receive the sacrament. He never looks at his phone or fidgets like he’s bored; every once in awhile, he’ll glance at Raphael, checking in to make sure he’s okay. But Raphael can’t look away. He’s a thousand miles away, but he still feels like he needs to sneeze from the incense. For the first time in a long time, Raphael feels normal. Like he could turn and see his mother thumping the head of one of his brother’s for acting up in church. He doesn’t turn to look, but he does reach out to hold Simon’s hand. Simon squeezes his hand in return and scoots closer. 

They watch the midnight mass come to a close, and Simon leans in close to Raphael’s ear, whispering like someone might actually hear them. 

“Did I do good?”

Raphael doesn’t answer. He brings their entwined hands up to his mouth and gently kisses Simon’s hand.

“Yes, you did good. Thank you.”

Simon smiles, bright and blinding and only for him. “You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, Raphael.”

“Merry Christmas, Simon.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know that you can write fic for a show/movie/book series that you've never seen? 
> 
> That's right @cassieclare, I've never ingested a single piece of your media. Just seen the gifs. Happened to be inspired by a gifset, and wikipedia took care of the rest.


End file.
